Cliches of the Imagination

The only human drama you can wring from this novel is that Zach’s work has temporarily estranged him from his wife. This is not shown,but told. His emotional life is torn between his wife,Julia,a literary agent,and his rebound girlfriend,a petulant waitress named Mandy. Zach’s erotic appeal is insisted on,over and over again — the women he has loved and left (like the smoky-eyed investment banker who smears Gentleman’s Relish all over the crotches of his trousers),the infinite possibilities at book fairs.

Even his fiction and non-fiction editors at Litmus — the warm,instinctive brunette Yanara and the cool,granular blonde Rachel (as he sees them) — compete for his attention (as he sees it). But for all his tired sophistication,Zach’s insights into the emotional life are at the level of “why did relationships have to be so damned difficult”,“maybe he should have become a priest” and “in his experience,relationships end badly if they aren’t snapped off cleanly,or if they aren’t allowed to dribble away into nothingness”.

Most of the encounters in this novel are meant to illuminate one or the other facet of the publishing world,circa 2011. And it is certainly worthwhile as an account of a reeling industry,its rationalisations and conceits,its fear of the unknown. But why bother with this slender husk of a character called Zachariah Thomas? He delivers somewhat defensive disquisitions on how “as long as people tell stories and consume stories,there will be a role for all of us”,of how publishing is the closest it gets to humanity’s “cultural soul”.

He ponders the challenges before him: “Apple. Amazon. Google. Digital content. DRM. Ereaders. Pricing models. Royalty rates. Marketing to consumers. Readers who would like content for free. Writers who must produce a strange hybrid that is part text,part music,part moving pictures with multiple endings and enough carny tricks to satisfy the semi-literate reader.” Names are dropped,from David Godwin to K.D. Singh to Vikram Seth,and publishing lore is affectionately retold.

He is accosted by strangers at parties,by younger colleagues,who seek his thoughts on where it’s all going,giving him another chance to expound. At a Delhi book launch,Zach drones on for three pages about the digital future to a certain Professor Malik,who has only plied him with a couple of questions,and then wonders why he,Zach,is stuck with this pedantic bore.

Ithaca has many schooled pretty phrases,and some interesting thoughts — like when Zach rues how so many writers squander that first chance,not realising that every publisher is looking for the flawless debut,one unburdened by a track record. “Why on earth don’t they throw caution to the winds,give their work a great clawing distinctiveness?” But,largely,the problem is that there is no respite from Zach’s self-absorbed chatter,his dead sentences. A dull meeting is described dully. The narrative hops from London to Thimphu,Delhi to Toronto,Frankfurt to New York,but means nothing apart from mentions of various foods — the world is only as round as Zach’s navel.